through the major tendons. Occasionally his knife slipped-hence the nicks on bone.”
“Why take them apart?”
“Presumably for more compact storage.”
“Well, you can’t argue with efficiency,” Casey quipped.
Everyone ignored him.
“Male or female?” Draper asked the pathologist.
“Oh, they were women.”
Jennifer would have guessed as much. The Ripper always killed women. Still, she was surprised Parkinson could determine their sex at a glance. She said so.
Parkinson smiled up at her. “I know something of your work, Doctor. The officers have filled me in. You read between the lines. Well, so do I.” He turned to the bone pile. “See the skulls? The brow ridges and mastoid bones would be more robust in the male. And the pelvises? Low and bowl-shaped, with a wide sciatic notch.”
“I thought you were pre-med, Silence,” Casey said disdainfully. “Shouldn’t you know this stuff?”
Jennifer glared at him. “I guess I missed that class.”
“That’s not all we can tell about these women.” Parkinson had slipped into lecture mode. “Look here. Incomplete epiphyseal fusion. The ends of the long bones are incompletely fused to the shafts. By age twenty-five, fusion would be complete.” He tapped one of the skulls. “See the teeth? Minimal wear. Another sign of youth. Judging by the gap between the pubis bones, I’d place the age of this specimen at fifteen to nineteen. A young but post-pubescent female.”
She hated the clinical detachment of his voice. Staring past him into the tomb, she thought of everything these girls had lost. Marriage, children, a life. All of that had been taken from them. They’d been cut down and left here in the dark under the stairs.
Draper was silent. She glanced at his profile, his mouth set, eyes far away. Maybe he felt what she did, bewilderment and sadness.
“You’re saying all of them were young?” Casey asked. “Maybe it was a pajama party that got out of control.”
It wasn’t like him to be this way. Draper sensed it, too. Irritated, he glanced at Casey.
“Not all of them, no,” Parkinson said. “I would say one or two of the victims had passed the age of twenty five. After that point, age becomes almost impossible to judge, at least until visible signs of old age set in.”
“How long have they been here?” Jennifer asked.
“I can’t determine the postmortem interval precisely. To do that, we would need some datable material-coins or an old newspaper, say.”
Or a diary, she thought.
“But,” he continued, “I’m willing to state that they have been
“And that means it’s not a crime scene,” Draper said. He saw Jennifer’s questioning look. “Are you familiar with the Safe Environmental Quality Act?”
“Should I be?”
“It’s a set of California statutes that establish the protocol for dealing with exposed human remains. Those dating back more than seventy-five years aren’t handled as police business. When that much time has passed…”
“It’s history,” she said, understanding.
Draper nodded. “That’s the cutoff point. After seventy-five years, whoever’s responsible is presumed to be past the point of prosecution. The law has no further interest in the matter.”
She wondered if the law would feel different after seeing the diary.
Casey looked dubious. “So we’re looking at a serial killer. From seventy-five years ago.”
“Or longer,” Parkinson said. “The remains could date back to the earliest days when this house was inhabited.” He looked at Jennifer. “You don’t happen to know when that was?”
“I believe the house went up in 1908.”
“A full century ago. That would be the earliest possible date.”
“You’d think a multiple murderer operating back then would get some attention,” Casey said. “I mean, Jack the Ripper sure as hell did.”
The mention of that name startled her. She had to remind herself that the Ripper was probably the only old- time serial killer who was still generally known.
“Jack the Ripper left his victims in plain view,” Draper said. “This guy was craftier. He kept them hidden.”
“Even so, this many disappearances in a small community had to send up a major red flag.”
“Not if they were widely spaced. Let’s say the victims were targeted one at a time, at irregular intervals, in different jurisdictions, with no consistent victimology or M.O. The authorities might have had no clue that the cases were connected.”
“Yeah, but serial killers don’t work that way. They don’t change their M.O.”
Draper waved off the objection. “They don’t change their
Jennifer was familiar with the distinction. The modus operandi was the practical plan used by the criminal. The signature was a personal touch that served no purpose other than the satisfaction of some deep-seated urge. Binding a victim with duct tape was an M.O. Urinating on the victim was a signature.
Jack the Ripper’s signature was the postmortem mutilation of the bodies. He could have done it just as easily in this cellar as in the street.
Much more easily, in fact, with no risk of detection. And since the bodies were hidden forever, no one might know that the maniac was at large. The disappearances might be chalked up to a variety of causes. There would be none of the extra police surveillance that the notoriety of the London murders had brought.
If he really was the Ripper, Edward Hare had learned from his mistakes in England. By the time he reached Venice, he was more cunning, more sophisticated. He could kill a half dozen women and girls, and the crimes would never be fitted into any pattern.
“Well, there’s one bright spot, Silence,” Casey said. “At least your ancestor was smart.”
She bristled. “Nice and tactful. Thanks.”
“Your ancestor?” Parkinson asked.
“Her family’s owned this house forever.” Casey’s shoulder lifted in an insolent shrug. “Didn’t she mention that detail?”
“I didn’t have the chance.”
“I guess it’s not something you’d want to brag about.”
Draper stared him down. “That’s enough, Sergeant.”
Casey smirked and turned away. Jennifer hated him. She could have punched his face.
“I don’t know exactly when my great-grandfather took possession of the house,” she said. “It could have been 1908. He could have been the original owner. Or maybe not. There are family records where the information might be listed, but I–I’m having trouble tracking them down.”
“Who has those records?” Draper asked.
“My brother, Richard. At least, he’s supposed to have them. He inherited them. But he may have lost them by now.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s…not well. He has schizophrenia.”
Parkinson looked interested. “Does mental illness run in your family?”
“Jesus, Alan,” Draper said.
Jennifer met the man’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it does.”
There was a tense stillness in the cellar, broken when Draper said, “Well, if you do recover those records, let me know.”
“I thought the law had no interest in the matter.”
“The law may not. But I do.”
